by P. K. Tyler
“All danske names mean something. ‘Alvilda’ means ‘battle of elves’ and ‘Birger’ is a common surname in Denmark. It means ‘one who helps’ and that is what I hope to do here.”
Carrie said she was surprised to learn that elves fought.
“If you’re interested, I can tell you some old folk tales. Norse elves aren’t like the cute little guys who help Santa at the Nordpolen. But some house elves can be very helpful.”
And with that, Carrie knew they would get along well. They seemed practically made for each other.
In the exam room, Greg turned to Doug and said, “I have a lot of questions, of course, but most of them will be answered, I hope, in the process of testing and examining your wife. I really brought you in here to find out if you have any questions for me that you don’t want to ask in front of her.”
Looking surprised and appreciative, Doug hesitated and asked, “Is she sick?”
“We’ll be running a lot of blood tests and taking x-rays and CT and MRI scans to find out. On the surface, she is not, and it would be better for both of you if you don’t worry ahead of time. If we find something that needs attending to, she’s in the best place for it.”
“I understand, Doc. If I find myself worrying I’ll go out and milk the goats.”
“That reminds me. We’ll need to know everything about her lifestyle and any changes either of you have made lately. I’ll determine her stress level during my exam. That will be an indicator of whether she is handling her new situation well. How does she seem to be taking it?”
“The thing is, she seems to be enjoying it, except she gets frustrated when I don’t understand her. She’s a generally happy person.”
“Good. A cheerful attitude will help see her through this.”
“Do you think this will … wear off over time?”
“I honestly have no idea. If we find a brain lesion or a tumor—and I know those are scary words, but they can be benign—there’s every chance that relieving that situation could bring back her English. It’s simply too early to know.”
“Thanks,” Doug said, looking him in the eye. “I’ll write down any more questions that come to mind.”
“I’ll be here to answer them if I am able and, if not, I’ll find someone who can. The university has the best team of doctors in the region, and you and your wife are now team leaders. You ask questions, we will provide information, and we will all work toward mutually acceptable decisions.”
The two men returned to Shanks’s consultation room to find the two women deep into a conversation about dansk folklife. When she saw them, Carrie motioned to Doug, wanting him to listen to the younger woman. She turned to Alvi and said, “Fortæl ham på katten.”
“Oh! I forgot we talked about that.” Addressing Doug, she said, “My cat, Aina—that means ‘always and only’—had kittens, and Carrie has agreed to take one.”
Doug looked at Carrie, who beamed. He shrugged and said, “Only if you have a good Danish name picked out for him.”
Alvi thought. “Well, he’s brown and has big paws and likes to stand on his back legs, swatting like a boxer. You could name him Bjarke.”
Carrie nodded approval.
“And what does Bjarke mean?” Doug asked.
“Bear.”
“Sounds like a done deal, Doug,” said Greg. “No sense in looking any further.”
“You’re right, there. Listen, I want to thank you for taking some time with me in there,” Doug said, tilting his head toward the exam room.
The doctor put his hand on Doug’s shoulder and said, “Any time. We’ll tackle all this together.”
The look Carrie and Doug exchanged telegraphed, “I’ve found a friend.”
* * *
The tests continued for weeks. Carrie made a deal with Doug, who argued, but finally said, “You win. You drive yourself to any appointments that don’t scare one of us ...” he paused, turning aside as though addressing someone else, “I’m talking to you, spinal tap and brain biopsy, if it comes to that,” Looking at Carrie, he finished with “and I’ll take care of the farm and worry.”
“Godt.”
When she went in for more scans, Doug replaced the middle step at the back porch and worried.
He measured twice and cut once, remembering as always what a weathered dockhand had told him when he worked a summer job there between college terms.
“You need to measure at least a coupla times before you commit,” the old guy said, “else you’ll wind up with something close enough for gubmint work.”
“What’s that?” Doug asked.
“Measure with a micrometer,” he replied, holding a thumb and forefinger a hair apart and squinting fiercely at the gap. He turned and ran his lumpish thumb along the storeroom wall, saying, “Mark with chalk.” Then he shrugged and said, “Cut with an axe.”
The back step was exactly cut and would weather to look like the other two.
When Carrie went for more bloodwork, Doug worked on the garden fence and worried.
Rabbits had learned where the weak spots had developed. He braced one side at a time and dug a deeper trench along the existing posts, muttering “Gå væk!” and waving his arms when sweat bees showed up. Lining the ditch with chicken wire provided a few scratches and jabs, so he told Carrie later that he, too, had given blood that day.
Always, he milked the goats and gathered eggs. For the eggs, he snagged the empty 2-pound plastic container the powdered yogurt culture had come in, unscrewing the lid as he walked to the chicken pen. He had started using it to hold the eggs he collected after having tripped, launching all the eggs from the open basket he was carrying. He had even cussed in Danish, due to picking up a good word when Carrie burned a finger on the cookstove. He made yogurt for Carrie, wrinkling his nose in his usual distaste and telling Bjarke made-up fanciful stories about the evils of cultured milk products.
* * *
A week or two into what Doug called Carrie’s Grand Rounds, a package arrived in a big brown van. She saw her name as addressee and was about to open it when he snatched it from her.
“Not yet, not yet!” he laughed, holding it over his head. “First, turn on the computer.”
She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, but then shrugged her eyebrows and booted up the beast. While she waited for the working screen, he used his pocketknife to slit the paper tape and open the box. As he removed the plastic pillows inside he said, as he did every time he encountered them, “Why didn’t I think of that? I could’ve made millions by selling air.”
Carrie looked over her shoulder, and Doug said, “Eyes front!” She gave him a silly salute and turned back to the screen.
He raised the object from the box and brought it in a grand swoop over her head and down in front of her, resting his chin on her shoulder. She blinked. She turned her head to ask why he had bought a new keyboard when the one they had worked fine and he snatched a quick kiss.
Standing straighter, he pointed to one of the keys on the new device. She looked and did a double take. “‘Ø’!” She ran her hands lightly over the keyboard, caressing it. “Og ‘æ’, og ‘å’, og jeg elsker dig!”
“I understand that last bit. You ‘dig’ Doug. I love you, too, CarrieAnne.”
Later, after an intermission to prove the mutual regard, Carrie sat in front of the monitor in her robe and slippers, discovering that she could type in dansk as well as she had previously been able to in English. She found herself online, researching the history of Denmark. An article on the Little Mermaid statue in Copenhagen piqued her interest in folklore, and another article on myths caught her eye, sending her into a world that reminded her of fairy tales from her childhood.
The stories were filled with goblins and trolls and wraithlike wights that made mischief—or worse, as some were downright frightening—and charming little characters called nisses, a bit like Scottish brownies, who helped around the house. When she told Doug about her findings, he said, “You’re just
eating up that fairy tale business. I think you love the stories as much as that nasty yogurt!”
She found herself wondering whether the little mythical creatures ever commingled, creating a “helper” who was clumsy, or one who could make magical changes happen. When feeling whimsical, she imagined that otherwise unexplained little noises in her house were made by tiny hobs in the walls. Whenever she noticed an item out of place or knocked over, she humphed “Hvad nu? Ah, Nisse!”
As Carrie delved more, she began writing her own stories. They were filled with shape shifters, cunning alchemists, and surprises. And they felt so familiar it seemed as though they wrote themselves. She began sharing them in online Danish and Danish American social groups.
Doug, on the other hand, researched Denmark’s real history and modern Danish culture. He studied its form of government and its social and financial systems. He discovered the country ranked higher in health services than the United States and, looking at travel websites, he wondered whether a trip there would help his wife.
* * *
There were more tests. More doctors examined Carrie, calling for spinal taps and scans and IQ tests and progressively bizarre-seeming urinalyses. The psychologist who suggested electroshock therapy was sent packing. Carrie used an online translating service to tell Doug that the process was wearing her out. She pinched her cheeks and typed that she thought she’d need a facelift soon because of the stress wrinkles she was getting.
“No, dear. You’ve been through enough procedures. You’re beautiful just the way you are. But, tell you what,” he said, eyes twinkling. “If you think you’re looking older, don’t have yours lifted. I’ll have mine lowered!”
With Alvi as translator, Carrie mentioned to Greg Shanks one day that she had easily typed in dansk the very day Doug had given her the special keyboard. She had not thought to mention it before but knew he wanted to hear about everything concerning the language change.
“I thought the most mysterious aspect of this was that you can understand both English and Danish, but can speak only Danish,” he said. “It’s one thing to wake up speaking a different language; Foreign Accent Syndrome’s been studied all over the world. What I don’t get is how this happened to you when you had not been in a coma, or had a high fever, or brain damage from an accident. Yours is the only case where the patient can understand two languages after the onset. All your scans and x-rays are clear. And now, on top of speaking Danish, you’re typing it like a whiz. We need to do more tests.”
“Jeg vil ikke have flere.”
Alvi sucked in a breath, eyes wide. “She doesn’t want any more.”
“Nonsense. We have to figure out what’s going on with your brain. Physically, you’re fine. Your counselor says you seem to be handling the emotional aspect of this quite well. We just need to discover the cause so we might understand how to fix it.”
“Jeg er ikke brudt. Jeg har ikke brug for at blive repareret.”
“She says she isn’t broken and doesn’t need to be repaired.”
“Mit liv er bedre på grund af dette.” Carrie’s chin rose.
“Her life is better because of what’s happened.”
Dr. Shanks tried to persuade Carrie to continue with the medical investigation. Her counselor tried. Her case went before a board of clinical psychologists. Hospital attorneys researched case law and determined that the State could not force her to remain a guinea pig. A brief attempt to have her committed against her will was quashed in court.
Doug said he knew better than to go against his wife’s wishes on the matter, saying he knew he could overrule her if she began acting oddly or became sick. Besides, although he didn’t say so in public, he told Carrie he wanted more time for now-international lovemaking with his ‘Exciting European Lover’. He also said he missed her during the day at home. Bjarke went only so far in the companionship department.
“She’s my CarrieAnne,” he said. “She’s healthy and happy. Just because she talks with new diphthongs and lilts doesn’t qualify her for the looney bin or a life of being every venipuncturist’s dartboard. We have our own sign language and translator apps … and some things need no translation. I firmly believe she has a right to make this decision. It’s okay with me if we never understand the origin of this change.”
Through all of the uproar, Carrie remained calm and determined, saying through Alvi, “You can write all the research papers about me that you want. Use all the results and observations you already have. No more tests.”
She was cheerful with everyone and her rapport with her interpreter grew deeper. She found facets of Alvi’s personality charming, and her family’s Danish background was both fascinating and comforting. The younger woman told her how much she admired her. Carrie claimed that was only because she had failed the dementia exam.
Alvi, startled, said, “Hvad?”
Carrie laughed and pointed out that, when the psychiatrist had reported she had no signs of social deficits or thinking problems, he had said, “You fail to show signs of dementia.” It sounded to her as though he was regretful about that.
“Så jeg 'mislykkedes' demens testen. Nu kender du min hjerne er ikke blød.”
“I always knew your brain is not soft! I love having a friend who’s strong and silly, too.” She raised a fist and Carrie bumped it with hers. “Friendship!”
“Venskab!” Carrie replied.
* * *
Despite Greg’s professional disappointment, his friendship with Doug was firm. He respected the man for supporting his healthy wife in her pursuit of a regular life. And Doug had a couple of fine fishing holes on his property. When the doctor visited their homestead, Carrie fed him Danish dishes rich in fresh herbs and wooed him with fruity desserts. His favorite was æbleskiver, spherical apple pancakes with confectioner’s sugar and black currant jam. She knew he was always watchful of her and gave him no cause for alarm. She was fine.
Alvi visited as often as her schedule allowed, often staying overnight on weekends. Carrie’s language change may not have satisfied the neurologists’ questions, but it had provided Alvi with a subject for her thesis. Cultural Aspects of Spontaneous Language Adoption: One Case Study was accepted by an intrigued doctoral panel.
Life began to feel normal with Carrie’s pincushion arms recovered from all of what Doug called the bloodletting. (“Blodsudgydelser,” she responded.) ‘Normal’ now included Danish folk art on the walls, more Danish dishes on the table, more danske words on Doug’s tongue, and always, always, yogurt for Carrie. She ate it with gusto, hearing the faintest sounds of scurrying feet and sometimes the squeak of tiny laughter. There was no way she would mention that to Greg, though. Her days as a lab rat were over.
Doug had a hard time acquiring a taste for akvavit, Denmark’s “water of life,” saying it was too heavy on the caraway flavor. He preferred a cold beer. Carrie playfully mixed goat yogurt and akvavit on the rocks and presented it to him one weekend when Greg and Alvi were both visiting.
Doug smelled the concoction and wrinkled his nose so hard it elicited a round of laughter.
“That face reminds me of my uncle’s at his younger son’s wedding rehearsal dinner,” Greg said. “Uncle Bob was a practical joker. For years he had made both his boys nauseated, referring to oyster milkshakes. ‘You know what would be good with this meal? A good old oyster milkshake.’ That sort of thing. Then, at the big dinner, a waiter brought out a malted glass and ceremoniously placed it in front of Bob. ‘What’s this?’ he asked. ‘You’ve told us for years that you fancied oyster milkshakes and regretted never finding them on the menu,’ his sons told him. ‘We had the chef here make one up special for you!’”
“What in the world did he do?” Alvi asked.
“After a feeble protest, he reluctantly took a sip and couldn’t help but grimace. Then he set it aside, saying he had eaten too much that night to have any room for it, and he claimed it was a shame.”
Doug carefully pushed the akvavit/yogurt comb
o aside, saying, “What a pity I’m so full!”
* * *
“Er du færdig med malkningen?” Carrie called out the back door.
“Yes, just now finished milking,” came the reply. “You need it?”
“Ja, så er det tid til at gøre mere yoghurt. Jeg kan bare ikke få nok af den.”
Doug came in with the milk bucket. “You really do go to town on that yogurt.”
“Jeg har altid elsket yoghurt fremstillet af gedemælk og den smager bedre og bedre med mig nu.”
“Well, I’m glad you do like it so much, then. It’s healthy for you, and Meg and Tilly are happy to oblige when I milk them. Sorry I can’t help you get rid of it, but you know I can’t stand the stuff.”
“Du ved bare ikke, hvad der er godt!” she teased, not for the first time.
“I do so know what’s good, and yogurt ain’t it!” He turned to leave. “I’m going to check for eggs.” Stepping off the porch, he mused, “Wonder if that new yogurt culture we got last winter is what’s making it taste so good to her.”
He snagged the empty plastic container the yogurt powder had come in, unscrewing the lid as he walked to the chicken pen. The label on the jug was still readable, but he had never looked at it; yogurt was Carrie’s thing, not his. He ignored the elf-like logo, “Nisse Farm” name, and “Made by Magic Hands” slogan, completely oblivious that, despite the Ohio location of the seller’s farm, the bottom line of print read “Produceret i Danmark”
About the Author
Charlton is a well-traveled writer whose first book was a construction paper tome of 16 pages at age 8. She tortured her parents with homemade stage plays, using a sliding glass door to introduce characters. Eventually, she segued into real life, fulfilling a college degree and practicing several professions, and then she retreated to her make-believe world and the friends it now presents. While comfortable with poetry, she ventures into prose upon occasion, with results similar to and greatly diverging from the one here. She curates a writer-dense Facebook group at DCharltonEdits, provides editing services, and tweets as @dcwrites. She is tender, fierce, and loyal.
